


From The Ashes

by 72HoursMassacre



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 17:14:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15393543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/72HoursMassacre/pseuds/72HoursMassacre
Summary: Natasha Romanoff watches the Avengers fall apart.





	From The Ashes

The last time she’s been to a funeral was back at Russia. At a small village, forgotten somewhere under the heavy snow of a permanent merciless winter, on a windy December 23rd evening many years before she dares to remember. There was no priest of course, no fake promises of heaven, or crying or even anyone around but her. Red Room doesn’t forgive betrayal. And giving up your life, risking the success of the mission for another agent –for anyone– was definitely catalogued as such. At least, her influence was deep enough to allow a proper burial. Most of them weren’t as privileged. Most of them, wouldn’t think twice to let her rot. Most of them, weren’t the closest thing she had to a best friend.

Living at the Avenger’s tower feels like that one funeral. Expect this time, she’s not alone to stare at a fake name on a messy tombstone. This time it lasts for days straight. This time, there is no body to bury.

They don’t meet unless it’s about planning on how to cease that last one chance. Unless they sit around the big round table, assume the titles that the world wants to know them by and forget their humanity behind the closed doors of their rooms to wait until late at night when no one is watching. When no one can pity him as his teardrops wet that one picture of three beautiful smiling faces, he always carries in the pocket just over his heart, with his head against her shoulder, her eyes distant, detached and the indiscernible sounds of the TV concealing the sounds of their souls breaking. And if they can have two or three minutes of pure honesty once every other night, he can go on lying and faking for as long as it takes. And it would feel like two lonely, lost children slowly dying against each other under the debris of some burning building somewhere in Budapest all over again, if she didn’t have to be the one to save him this time. So she squeezes his hand into hers and whispers promises she knows she can’t keep. _She’s been waiting for her birthday for months. I would take them swimming for her birthday…_ he mutters and she pleads whatever god to keep her sane one more night.

Her instructors of back then would be proud of how Clint steps out of her room in the early hours of the morning as the perfect porcelain soldier, she’s certain. Well, maybe all but one. But then again, someone who extended a cold metal arm and asked her to dance with him even though her ballerina career was just an alias she had almost blown along with the mission only a few hours prior, even though he was soon to forget even her name, because he just wouldn’t stop screaming another; was probably unfit for a trainer by any spy organization’s standards. And yet as formidable as her best friend is, as they all may be, the God of Thunder gets the prize for her, she thinks as they keep arguing about whatever course of action, she doesn’t care about, in the background. To her it is, after all, clear as day. She is dying following Steve Rogers. And yet, even the once pride of the nation has never been as expert on hiding a broken soul behind the mask of the brave, mighty warrior. Still nothing able to bypass years of training under assassins. The quiet peace in his normally fiery gaze. The lingering hollowness in the normally pompous baritone of his voice. The slight trembling of his normally certain, tight grip around his new hammer. Their new alien raccoon ally seems to _see_ too. A lot more than he probably should, having known him the less. Maybe, because there’s a lot to have in common, between those who have lost everything. Maybe, there’s no one in the room, in the world, in the galaxy stronger than him now. And maybe, just maybe, watching him pretending for their sake now, she wishes that the one alien who killed thousands back in New York, who drove them a little closer to their downfall, was there by his side.

So when she finds him staring at nothing outside of the wall-tall windows more nights than not and their eyes meet for fleeting seconds, she doesn’t disrespect him with empty words of comfort. For she lives among people torn in half. And she can’t promise his other half is coming home.

They don’t look each other in the eyes unless there’s no other choice. Unless an argument gets out of hand and they need to instill dominance. Unless they’re trying to read what the other won’t write. Unless, it’s past midnight and their eyes are wet with memories and their minds clouded with alcohol. Unless there’s a million words to say, but the lips won’t cooperate for anything but screaming from nightmares. Unless, it’s the only way to transmit the intensity of their resolve.

So she allows herself to shiver under the raw hatred in the eyes of their newest cyborg member, as she looks dead in their eyes (like no one dares to) and promises she won’t stop until her father begs for mercy. For, the last time she’s seen such eyes, was in the mirror. So when thoughts like Clint’s face when he learnt one of his children was erased, while he was away on a mission, get a little too uncomfortable to ignore, she searches for her in the training room and clears her mind in the rush of the fight. And as they’re lying on the ground trembling, bruised and out of breath, the remaining daughter of their nemesis turns her head towards her and stares into her eyes and whispers _you fight a lot like her_. And if her friend(?) tears, she will make sure to forget when she leaves the room. For she is someone, who has known nothing but fighting for survival, who was given an order to kill when they needed a lullaby, who lost family, just when they finally found it. Someone just like her.

So she only stands and quietly leaves the room, on those infrequent times they happen to meet. The temperature drops, the air is diluted and it reminds her of that one time she was falling off a skyscraper to what would be certain death if it weren’t for Clint. And yet they remain unshaken, they hold on to the other’s gaze as if it’s the last drop of water in the middle of the desert, until everyone around feels like invaders in forbidden territory. Because they know no better way to tell the truth. For if he opens his mouth he will yell accuses he himself barely believes or worse he will forget why he had every right not to allow them back in his Tower. And if he opens his mouth, he will defend and once again argue him away or worse grab his forearm and plead him to stay. Because the weight of the world wasn’t so heavy when they carried it together, and now it crushes their bones in rhythmical symphony. They don’t remember how to fight alone. They don’t remember how to fight together. And maybe as she sits on her bed preparing her equipment for the mission starting first thing in the morning, she wishes she could touch his back and look at him just like only Bucky did, just before he was ready to take on the universe. Maybe she wishes she could touch his shoulder and scold him just like only Rhodey did, just before he was ready to die protecting the universe. Then, he could take the plate to him himself, instead of indirectly persuading anyone else to leave it at his lab. Then, he could give his sleeping pills to him himself, instead of _accidentally_ forgetting them where he is certain to find.

They don’t talk about it. What they saw. What they felt. What they should have done. What they didn’t do. What they lost. Unless you’re the King of Asgard and your brutal honesty won’t be satisfied until The Captain America and The Iron Man bow their head in shame before their mistakes. For their childish banter managed to break the team apart long before the most powerful weapon ever created. For they both can’t afford to be so inconveniently _human_. Until the tension silences everyone and you realize your own empty words and look away in guilt. _You are too human, for a god_ , she doesn’t say, because he knows.

Unless you’re a genius billionaire and there’s nothing left but raw irony to hide behind. For sedatives no longer grant you three or four hours of sleep. For any kind of food you’re forced to consume no longer remains in your organism long enough to matter before it’s flushed down your toilet. For charity and philanthropy no longer alleviate the regret. For metal coming to life in your palms no longer feels like the reason you were born. For mathematic formulas, physics’ principles and Bruce’s insightful commentary no longer keep the demons at bay. For Rhodey can no longer point you toward the right direction. For Pepper can no longer put your pieces back together. If Pepper can no longer put your pieces back together, it’s a one way ticket to the bottom and any amount of expensive alcohol will not avert the fall. Any amount of alcohol will only unconsciously lead you outside that one cursed door you don’t dare to knock. For your betrayer shouldn’t be the one you seek at 2 a.m. For he traded your conjoined future for a ghost of his past. But he will at least understand. Why your hands still burn with _the kid’s_ ashes. _He will always open_ , she doesn’t say when she catches him frozen at his doorway, because he knows.

Unless you’re a time bomb and you need to apologize with every way imaginable for your incompetence to combust when your friends relied on you the most. So you lock yourself in your room, desperately trying to tame the untamable. To finally make your greatest enemy, the greatest ally. Fit two souls in one body. So you lock yourself in Tony’s lab, because his mind is still your momentary sanctuary. Because that’s the last service you can offer and you hope you still at least belong there. If you don’t belong there, you belong nowhere. So you unconsciously lock yourself by Thor’s side, because he can still remind you why you keep fighting. Because people are naturally drawn by what they lack. And that is exactly why, she was always drawn to him. So she makes her way towards the lab at 2 a.m. (for apparently she and Tony have a lot more in common that they dare to admit), doesn’t care that the spark in his eyes is no longer directed at her, and pours them both a drink _. Technically, I haven’t lost anyone_ , she actually says, because her makeshift family is Steve’s or Clint’s and she can only borrow. _The fewer we love, the fewer we hurt_ , he answers smiling as their glasses clink against each other. And if it’s the saddest smile she’s ever seen, she won’t remember tomorrow.

She’s been afraid before. Her fingers trembling around her gun or pressing a wound deep enough to be someone’s last because of her. She’s survived the impact of failure before. Burying her face in her pillow and continuously repeating in her mind Steve’s words like her personal religion- _If we give up now, maybe next time no one gets saved_. She’s been ready to give her life for their cause before. Stopping for a moment in the midst of chaos to steal a glance at the faces she might never see again. Even then, she still held on to the sense of power, of dignity that comes with making that hard decision herself. And as Steve grabs his new shields and shouts orders at their small team on another insignificant mission which caused them another apparently insignificant soul, she realizes sooner or later, just like Bruce’s smile that night, the _scars_ of that one fateful battle will fade. Maybe because unlike the ghosts of her home roaming the halls and passing through walls at midnight she’s been taught to survive without a beating heart. And what will remain is what distinguishes that one fight from the countless she’s experienced since she was old enough to hold a knife. They know. They don’t talk about it either. Still, it lingers. In the way Tony throws his glass of whiskey with all the hatred he can master in his lab, when he thinks no one can hear it, or Clint misses targets he would normally hit with both eyes closed, or Bruce partakes in verbal arguing instead of struggling to mollify it. Still it haunts them. The despair. The helplessness. The stigma. Earth’s supposed Mightiest Heroes unable to do anything but watch, as half the universe becomes dust slipping through their fingers.

So she doesn’t question him when he _puts on_ the ever carefree comrade, with his uncontrollable excitement to assist a team of mostly strangers, the ineffective jokes which don’t cover the wariness in his voice, the constant bright smiling which doesn’t reach his eyes. She simply plays along, because everyone in the room chuckle when he tries a little too hard to brighten Steve’s mood, when he stares at him like a star-struck teenager, or whistle when he annoys Tony by keeping up with his witty responses, or smirk when he teases Rocket just for the satisfaction of Thor’s hand on his shoulder as his laughter echoes through the building. Because their funeral was missing its giggle. Because she doesn’t know him as well as the others, but the eyes of those who had their world stolen beneath their feet are always the same color of dread and hatred. Because he keeps a picture exactly where Clint does. And if she finds him semi-drunk just like her on a park bench downtown and sits next to him and looks at the starless sky and whispers _they’re both really beautiful_ hoping he doesn’t hear, neither will remember tomorrow. And if she talks about how she’s killed a child’s mother with her Barbie doll and listens about how he broke into a high security bank to buy a birthday present for his daughter until dawn, it’s because they don’t know each other, but the sins of those who couldn’t protect what keeps them waking up in the morning has always the same taste of rage and remorse.

So she doesn’t question him when he _puts on_ the ever reliable leader with his quick wit, his passionate, inspirational speeches and his innate dangerous selflessness, in desperate endeavor to motivate the team. After all, _if there’s a single one of us alive, there’s still hope,_ and she’s willing to bet her life on it. She simply plays along to his fanciful façade, because he looks at her as if he needs confirmation he’s played his role correctly. Because Thor smirks in pride and Clint sighs in exasperation and Bruce’s eyes widen in astonishment and Scott lightens up in awe and Tony stares two seconds too long. They all know. They don’t talk about it. Because it’s always easier for everyone to persuade themselves at least one of them still believes, still stands unbroken. It’s easier to think he’s running to exercise, than running from his thoughts.  It’s easier to be blinded by the light of the flame, than see the candle slowly, quietly melting. And if she discovers one too many sketches of a certain face on his desk, if she hears one too many times the same names when she falls asleep dead drunk next to him, if he takes one too many hits he could easily avoid during their missions, she doesn’t waste both their times with hollow expressions of compassion.

Because when he woke up in another century, alone and disoriented there was only one person that he held on like a rock during a hurricane. Because when the world he saved a million times turned against him, there were only a select few who stood beside him. And he has let them down one too many times. Instead she wraps his bleeding hand in gossamers ceremoniously –as if it is the most sacred thing she’s ever touched– as another piece of another broken mirror hits the ground in front of him, meets his eyes through his distorted reflection and doesn’t whisper _We did all we could. It’s not our fault…_ for neither of them will believe it.

Because those nights, when the world didn’t care for a disappointment like him, when he laid semi-dead on his bed, the same face that had once dared to look at her as if she’s not _made of marble_ but flesh and blood, was always the only compassionate face fading in and out of his vision, making him want to fight for another breath. And he has lost it one too many times. Instead, she hands him her bottle of liquor on 3 a.m. on the sofa of their empty common room and he drinks gluttonously, hoping futilely it will have any kind of impact and she puts her head on his lap, refusing to vomit on Tony’s carpet, more to avoid his complaining than to hide how low she’s fallen.

“Let’s go on a road trip. After…” she barely hears “Sam’s idea.”

“I knew such a fun idea wouldn’t be yours.” she attempts to tease as she steals the bottle back, empties what little of it is left, throws it on the floor and closes her eyes against his fingers through her hair “I’m in.”

“It’s ok to cry, you know…” and if she was a little more sober she would have outright died laughing. If she was a little more sober she would know better than allow a similar situation from ages ago conquer her mind.

“I bet he’s told you that a million times and you haven’t heard him once.” And maybe when they were hiding in her room a lifetime ago and his remaining arm was caressing her head under the moonlight entering through the shutters, when her younger self still naively believed she could fill the void in his eyes, some locked, forbidden part of his mind was thinking of him. Maybe even when he didn’t remember his own real name, he still remembered him.

“I still think he’s right…” he confesses.

“Don’t be ridiculous… We’re the universe’s last hope. We can’t afford to cry.” She says as she feels the fabric of his pants wetting beneath her eyes.

“Of course not. The Black Widow doesn’t cry.” She hears his uneven breathing.

“The Captain America doesn’t cry either.”

“Of course he doesn’t.”

And if they break on Tony’s sofa, the world is too busy moving forward to care. If Tony cries in his sleep next to Pepper, if Clint stays up all night over his kids’ beds, if Scott is kicked out of some underground bar, if Thor screams a name in his sleep, if Rocket plays Peter’s music collection on repeat, if Bruce’s selves threaten to tear his scalp apart, if Nebula stares at her ceiling imagining a thousand ways to commit murder, it doesn’t matter to anyone. For tomorrow they will gather on the common room and drink coffee and pretend what’s littering the halls aren’t their pieces. Tomorrow they will wear their suits and trust their lives on each other’s trembling hands and face destiny.

And if she dies tomorrow or the day after, maybe she will meet her friend again and bury her nose in her hair that always somehow smelt like exotic summers and tell her, she’s fought alongside heroes.

 


End file.
